Alex Cross's Trial

said.

    “Aw now, come on, Doc,” I said. “It’s for Abraham Cross. He’s dying, and it would bring him relief. You’ve known Abraham all your life.”

    “I told you we’re out,” he said. “Now clear out of here.”

    “There it is, up there next to the camphor.” I pointed to the row of bottles on the shelf above his head.

    “You callin’ me a liar?” said Conover. “Take off, or I’ll have the police throw you out of here.”

    Moody pulled at my sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said.

    I followed her toward the front door.

    There was a crowd waiting outside to point and jeer at us. We turned left and headed down the block. “Let’s go to the Slide Inn and have some iced tea,” I said.

    “I can’t go in there,” she said.

    “Sure you can. Who’s going to stop you?”

    “Get out of here, nigger-lover!” called a man in the crowd.

    We came to Jenkins’ Mercantile, passing the bench where Henry North and Marcus had carried my mother after she had had her stroke.

    We walked the rest of the way to the Slide Inn, trailing our little mob of catcalling spectators.

    Lunch service was over. There were only three customers in the café—two young ladies sipping coffee and an old woman chewing on a cheese sandwich.

    I’d hoped Miss Fanny was on duty today, but it was another waitress who approached us. “Can’tcha read?” she said, poking her thumb at a brand-new sign posted above the cash register:
    WHITES ONLY
    “I’m white,” I said.

    Without a pause the waitress said, “You got a nigger with you. Now go on, get outta here.”

    “Where’s Miss Fanny?” I said.

    “She don’t work here no more,” the woman said. “ ’Cause of you.”

    We turned to the door. I felt something hit my sleeve and I glanced down. It was a gob of spit, mixed with what looked like cheese. It could only have come from the little old lady.

    When we stepped out the door our audience had swelled to a couple of dozen angry people.

    They gawked at us. They yelled. They mocked.

    “Kiss me,” I whispered to Moody.

    She looked up at me as if I were insane, but she didn’t say no.

    I leaned down and brought my lips to hers.

    A cry of pain ran through the crowd.

    A woman’s voice: “Look, he got what he wanted—a nigger girl to take to his bed.”

    A man’s voice from behind me shouted, “Y’all goin’ to hell and burn for all time!”

    “Niggers! You’re both niggers!”

    “You make me sick in my gut!”

    “Get out of here! Just get out!”

    I whispered, “You ready to run?”

    Moody nodded.

    And we ran, and ran, and ran.

    Chapter 130

    WE WERE HALFWAY to the Quarters before the most persistent of our pursuers gave up. We stopped to catch our breath, but I kept an eye out, in case anyone was still following.

    As it dawned on me what we had done, I realized that I was—well, I was delighted . Who would have thought two people holding hands could make so many wrong-minded people so very unhappy? We had put the citizens of Eudora in an uproar, and that realization warmed my heart.

    I had abandoned my bicycle downtown. Maybe the mob had strung it up in a noose by now.

    As Moody and I walked the muddy boards that passed for a sidewalk, folks began coming out of their houses to have a look at us. As fast as we’d run, news of our public display seemed to have preceded us.

    “Y’all damn crazy,” said one old lady.

    “Naw, they in love,” said a young man beside her.

    “Well, hell, if that ain’t crazy, I don’t know what is!”

    “No, ma’am,” I said. “We’re not crazy and we’re not in love, either.”

    “You just tryin’ to cause trouble then, white boy?” she demanded.

    “All I did was kiss her,” I explained. “But we did cause some trouble.”

    The old lady thought about it a moment, then she cracked a smile.

    It was like a photographic negative of our march through Eudora. By the time we got to the crossroads by Hemple’s store, we had a crowd of spectators tagging along with us.

    One of the old men looked up from his checkerboard, his face grim. “ Now see what you done,” he said to me. “You done kicked over the anthill for sure. They comin’ down here tonight, and they gonna lynch you up somethin’ fierce. And some of us, besides.”

    “Then we’d better get ready for them,” Moody said.

    “Ready?” said the other checkers player. “What you mean ready, girl? You mean we best say our prayers. Best go make the pine box ourselves.”

    “You got a gun for shootin’ squirrel, don’t you?” said Moody. “You got a knife to skin it with,